Rosetinted

Some things I have, as a modern person, come to rely on whether or not, evolutionary speaking, it does me a scrap of good. I am a good few generations in from having to make fire or dig a well for water. Perhaps, I am a dullard from becoming too soft and reliant on switching a switch for survival and placing my basic needs in the care of others but, in my defence, I have known no other way and I cannot recall much protest from those who inhabit the western world. Of course there has been moments when we realise the whole earth does not wake each morning to running water or functioning electricity, but on the whole - most of us pampered folk have fashioned our lives around these two facts: we will wake up with clean water and electricity.  For many of us, our survivalist skills are all but forgotten, hence the abundance of adrenaline that courses around our veins. Living without a daily near death experience to expend it we've become anxious of shadows and invented fears amongst ou...

I am well acquainted with one of the many formulae of genius, there is a theory that any reasonably intelligent person will reach 'genius' status just through the amount of hours they dedicate themselves to the acquisition of a skill or knowledge.  I have used this theory to try and cajole myself to partake in daily practise: you know the kind of things: yoga, running, writing etc etc. I have tried and failed. Yet, I do not fail at daily practise, I can eat, sleep, urinate and defecate with daily precision, even so I am still not a genius nor skilled at the ablutions I manage to do daily.  View this post on Instagram A post shared by Deborah Darko Davies (@roseytintz) Over the years I have persuaded myself into 'little and often'- that is the most I have managed to achieve: I often run, little. I write little, often and I continue to do little yoga, frequently. Little and often is the way to go, I reassure myself. With this in mind, I have begun ...

Somewhere on some social media outlet, I made vague promises that this week's lockdown journal would be on the subject of female anger. I got about 200 words in, fueled by whisky and some musky, heavy female hormones and realised I was far too pissed off to write it. I had two options, carry on with the words I had scribbled together, because I said I would - but that just made me angry... so I thought screw it, it is my blog I will write what the hell I want.  I voiced my sentiments, mainly to myself, because no-one gave any shits, and came to understand, somewhat angrily that I had covered some of the bases- so I moved on.  And if you have a problem with that you can take it up with my manager, alright?         View this post on Instagram A post shared by Deborah Darko Davies (@roseytintz) It has been a long weekend of muddy running and promised snow. Only the snow didn't arrive (yet) and if I am really honest I am just longing ...

I have just woken up from a dream, we (I have no idea who we were) had just partaken in socially distanced outdoor japes. In my dream it felt as light and as normal as the time I vaguely remember; before humankind were all set upon each other with our opinions of how best to live through a pandemic. At the end of our outdoor japes I was feeling happy and free (why are feelings in dreams the most vivid part of the experience?) and I thought I would finish our time with a well-rehearsed hand spring. In real life I can just about execute a cartwheel with a front-facing landing but these are dreams OK. So, I limber up (even in my dreams I am middle-aged) I take a big run, I place one hand, than the other on the grass as I prepare to spin my body overhead and land gracefully.... Instead, I run, place the hands down at the point of where I will spin, collapse and crumple like a ball of soggy paper. The 'we' (I still do not recognise their faces) say encouraging things. I try again. I...

After 5 days of working from home/isolation I am prone to think about 'Home', the television adaption of JG Ballard's Enormous Space, back when channels could be unashamedly creative with their programme listing. It has been a while since I last saw 'Home', and I can still feel the impact it had. Some films leave behind a physical impact, I am still unable to step over a worm on a rainy pavement thanks to David Lynch's Eraserhead.  I was, an unashamed lover of anything JG Ballard and have read a number of his brutal tales. I heard his voice as an indictment on the banality of suburban living and his half step away from reality leaves me with a feeling of horror so much stronger than any complete fantasy world. I imagine a mind like Ballard's as a natural product of the strange suburban childhood dichotomy:  where Santa, Jesus and the Tooth Fairy are equal truths and where oddities and curiosities are shielded from eyes as 'not nice' and 'don'...

In the game of Rona-geddon, I am finally OUT. I have been asked to self-isolate due to contact with another Ronageddon victim. I am hoping that they stay safe and well. In fact, if any of my  'rona afflicted friends read this, be well, be safe and drink lots of herbal tea with a splash of honey.  So, now I have to face the one thing I have been dreading since the beginning of this fiasco - I have to a) work from home and b) not leave the house for 14 days. This is not my first rodeo, many years ago I contracted measles and suffered quite significantly. I was advised by the doctor to sit in a darkened room and not to leave the house or mix with others for 14 days. Of course the first few days were not an issue, it was a significant enough illness to leave my head on a pillow for a number of days. Eventually, I set up the high backed, green, nylon- clad chair next to the t.v, with the piano stool as a foot stool and watched countless episodes of: 'Wait 'till your father gets ...

I think I have a plan. It is a vague one, but I just about see the outline in the smog. My life has been devoid of plans for a while. Quite some time ago, I had a fixed long-term plan and it fell through, not dramatically - it quietly crumbled without so much of a care from anyone, except for me. It was, as is often the case of plans that crumble quietly, a life changing plan and its demise caused my grief alone. Sadness held alone is a lonely affair. Perhaps I didn't mind, at least not as strongly as I first felt and with the joy of hindsight - I was quietly relieved that the plan had been wrong all along. The aftermath of a plan failing is that you live in a state of loss, feeling awkward and embarrassed that you ever afforded yourself the belief, time and money to pursue a goal that led nowhere. It is hard to lift your head high when your  self has been so wounded.  But time ticks on and you have a choice, accept your lot or continue to tug at that string that things as the...